The River
by Luvergirl of Books
Summary: 'I might have had a plan, but he didn't know it. I might have been scared, but I didn't show it. But that's all between the river and me.' -Young Horace, rated T for obvious inferred violence-


**A/N:** Hey everybody! Long time no see, eh? As I have said, school has sucked me in. Puke. My visits to FanFiction have been sadly sporadic. What I figure, though, is that I'm going to ATTEMPT to do this: every weekend (with the exception of this weekend) I will try to come on, read something, and udpate a story or post something new! Not sure how long that will last, though...I have a large compilation of already-made stories, but even that resource will eventually be exhausted.

This idea came to me while listening to _Between the River and Me_ by Tim McGraw. Awesome song, you should really check it out. NOT a songfic, but I have used lyrics in the story. None of _those_ belong to me.

So without furter ado...

* * *

When Daddy died…I don't know. It's like time stood still for a month or two. Mama and me, we grieved; crying, that was the only way to express our feelings, to let everything out. I was barely nine.

But then, reality came flooding back. We were swept away by it.

Mom had to take on another job just to get us by; helping out the local healer a few hours a day, during the busiest part of the day; along with farm management duties of our home farm. She would say, "It's just us now, so this work with the healer is necessary." Mostly, I had the house chores, and the greater part of the farm work. I did as much as could to make it easier for Mama.

I don't really remember how long it was—it couldn't have been more than a few months, as I was still nine—because the days simply blended together. But after however long it was, that was when Evan came along. And it seemed like a blessing.

Mother and he started seeing each other every so often, and sometimes, she would bring him home. The first time she did, when I was introduced to Evan, they had been seeing each other for about two weeks.

I thought he was fine. I noticed that he would drink every now and again, but that was normal for almost any man around here. I really do believe that Mama truly loved him. But…I had my doubts.

It seemed like no time before she took his name. I was ten years old when they wed.

It seemed happy for a while. Mom was able to stay home more, as Evan had a fairly prosperous job. He grinned so much at her; it was a wonder that his face didn't hurt. He was very friendly with me, with both of us, for the most part.

Except, that is, for when he had been drinking. He was a very angry drunk. Very, very angry.

He was an abusive drunk.

It started with words. For a year, they gained more and more venom. Evan would yell verbal assaults at my mother, screaming hate-filled words at her until she cried. And she was a strong woman; she wasn't one to cry easily. But things soon got much, much worse.

It began with one backhanded slap across her face.

It didn't stop.

Evan continued to beat her that night; punches to Mom's ribs, her legs, her head, her face. I had cowered under my bed, being too afraid, only eleven years old. At last, Mama's screams subsided and, shortly after, so did the beatings. I fell into a fitful sleep, surrounded by eerie, strained silence.

Mama was laid up for three days. I took over for her on the farm, and when I could, I was at her side. Evan seemed to disappear for the majority of those days, coming home after dark, stone drunk, to pass out in bed.

When Mother could get around again, she had wasted no time. That afternoon, she went into the market, instructing me to "Stay home, finish the chores, and tend to the farm." And, of course, I had. I was home alone.

Later that evening after she had left, Evan came home, breathing hard, muttering about Mom's uselessness. Muttering good riddance to her. He was drunk again, more so than ever before. Without Mom there, he took his out aimless rage on me.

It was a cruel, brutal two hours.

I was considerably better off than Mama had been, but it still hurt like the devil himself. I got up after Evan had passed out on the living room floor. I had made it to my small bedroom, though every step, every jolt, every breath pained me. I slept.

Mama never came home that night. She never came home.

It was that night I swore that he wouldn't see another sunset.

Though they had said my mother had been confronted by bandits, had been cornered, then murdered in an alleyway; I knew the real story. There were no facts to prove it, but I knew; Evan had murdered Mama.

The next day, I followed him down to the riverbank. Right then, even at a mere eleven years old, I knew one of us wouldn't walk away.

* * *

I might have had a plan, but he didn't know it.

I might have been scared, but I didn't show it.

But that's all between the river and me.

With the current and the rocks, it could've been risky, perilous.

I might have been sober, unlike him, but I brought the whiskey.

But that's all between the river and me.

* * *

I walked up to him, just over a meter away. He turned to me when I called his name; then he saw the look on my face. I imagine that it was so savage, so furious; even at my young age, Evan had had a moment of sheer terror of me.

He took a step closer to me, and we stood; eye to eye, toe to toe. It was then that I told him: "You're never coming back home."

A snarl escaped his lips and his face twisted into pure hatred. In one slow, deliberate movement, he raised his fist to me; but I didn't flinch. My voice was dripping with hostility, venom.

"I'm not your son, you son of the devil."

* * *

I just might have had a knife in my back pocket.

I might have pulled it out before he saw it.

But that's all between the river and me.

* * *

I know that for a moment, he seemed to be stunned. And his drunkenness gave room for error. For a second, just a second, Evan lowered his fist. His defenses wavered.

* * *

He might have moved quickly, but I was too much for him.

He might have tried to yell, but I kept him quiet.

But that's all between the river and me.

* * *

The next day, there was a knock on my front door. I was at my house, by myself, working around the house as if all was normal. I opened up the door, revealing Halt. But I didn't know him then. Back then, to me, and to many others in Redmont, he was The Ranger.

Before The Ranger had a chance to say anything, I flung the door wider, invited him in; I had grown so much in a day, and had overcome most fear of him. I had overcome the majority of my fears.

As he crossed the threshold, I led him to a seat at the kitchen table, offered him a drink, to which he declined. I gave The Ranger a cordial greeting and a warm explanation that I was alone in the house.

It was just my house. It was no longer my home. After the previous afternoon, I would never again consider it home.

The Ranger said that he had found the body. He and a few others had located Evan's body down by the reservoir, where the river led.

He didn't fool me; because I knew that Halt wasn't fooled. He knew what had really happened, I'm sure of it. He recognized that it was me that had killed Evan. I knew that he knew. Though the real story was known, The Ranger didn't say it; he most likely had been expecting, or even planning, something of the sort for the mad drunkard—but maybe not so dramatic or severe.

The Ranger told me what had been found. There had been a bottle in Evan's tunic, liquor in his blood.

Must have fallen in the river and he never came up.

* * *

There might have been blood, but they never saw it.

Just a little mud on the living room carpet.

But that's all between the river and me.

After what he had done, there's no wonder.

…Can't remember how long I held him under.

But that's all between the river and me.

* * *

I was taken to the ward; there was no way they were going to let me stay at my house, alone, at my young age. The first day, before I got to the ward, I met Baron Arald. I explained the situations to him, and he explained my new situation to me. I told him about my mother dying—I left out the part about Evan being her murderer. I told him of Evan's death—I left out the part about me killing him.

"I'm sorry about everything, Horace," he'd said to me. "It must be so hard to lose your father, then to come here so soon after."

I had responded, not unkindly for the Baron's sake, but firmly: "He may have been my mother's husband, but he was not my father."

It was all of these events that made me want to become a knight. If I had had the courage, the strength, the willpower, the boldness of a real knight, I may have been able to save my Mama.

I might have been able to hinder her from her early death.

I might've been able to stop Evan beating her that night, may have stood up to him, may have confronted things then and there.

But I hadn't.

And now it was too late.

But that didn't mean that I couldn't prevent others from happening. If I became a knight, a warrior, I could keep other children from going through what I had to. It may have been too late for me, but it wasn't too late for all of the other boys being put through the same situations that I had had to deal with.

And now, that's what I live for. To stop Evan. To stop everyone like Evan out there. Before it's too late for them.

_Finis_

* * *

**A/N:** So...? What did you think: like it, didn't, love it, hate it? Personally, I thought it was pretty neat, but then again, I love that song. Let me know!


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